


Sought After

by LynFraser09



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynFraser09/pseuds/LynFraser09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John is miserable and is lacking the adventure his life once held. Can a certain Doctor help bring it back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sought After

It had been six months. Six dreadful months. Six dreadful, long months. Every day John awoke half expecting Sherlock to be doing something incredibly inappropriate for that time of day and every day John awoke to nothing but an empty, quiet flat. Every day he told himself he'd be moving out of 221B just so he could try and put his friend's death behind him but then he caught sight of the violin resting peacefully in its proper place, caught the skull mounted on the fireplace, saw the microscope sitting on the table begging to be used or the cluedo board pinned to the wall with a knife and realized he simply couldn't leave 221B because if he did Sherlock would be gone for good.

He'd gotten a better job, at a hospital halfway across London as just the thought of St. Bart's made him sick.

Mrs. Hudson came in to check on him every once in a while, she seemed to be taking Sherlock's death a little easier than he was. She took care of him though, brought him tea and biscuits occasionally without a single quip of not being his housekeeper.

He rarely ever saw Lestrade, only occasionally in passing - without Sherlock, there was no need for constant contact with the police.

Molly came by at least a couple times a month just to get him out of his flat and bring him out to dinner. The sweet girl was the only person who could get him to smile. He supposed if anyone felt the hurt of Sherlock's death like he did it would have been Moly. He was unsure if Molly still held her strong feelings for him at his passing but regardless she was close to him and given his display at the Christmas party he liked to believe Sherlock had some care for her.

Even Mycroft had tried to contact him a couple of times but he refused to speak to the older Holmes brother. John wasn't sure what had driven Sherlock to jump off of a building, he once stated he didn't care what people thought about him, but he imagined a pressure like that and going up against someone like James Moriarty could drive anyone, even Sherlock Holmes, off the edge and Mycroft's contributions to that situation certainly didn't help.

So there he was just living his life, day after day as best he could. He told his therapist once that nothing ever happened to him and then he met Sherlock and for eighteen insane but wonderful months, everything happened to him. And now...once again...there was nothing. There was worse than nothing. Coming home from the war he had nothing, his life was completely empty and now it was not only empty but lacking the thing that made his life worth while and he would have preferred mindlessly empty to that any day.

It was late at night when something finally did happen. He was lying awake in bed, one of the many sleepless nights he'd had over the last six months, his mind replaying the horrible sight of Sherlock falling...falling...falling...

He winced as he heard the crack of his body hitting the pavement, he cringed at the memory of the blood that soaked it, the absence of his pulse and his cold, lifeless eyes never to observe again.

He flipped over onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow and roughly pulling his blankets over his head, hoping to drown out all the noise in his head.

He stayed there until he could hardly breathe and until the heat itself started to suffocate him. He kicked the blankets off of him and rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up to his chest and glared heavily at the dark wall.

It was not five minutes later that a strange, wheezing sort of noise pierced the dead quiet air. His first thought was that it was the wind and then he realized - wind didn't sound like that. Wind wasn't constant nor did it wheeze.

He rolled onto his other side, peering curiously at his closed door and trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. As it grew louder he realized it was indeed coming from outside his door and instantly his heart seized.

Moriarty was dead, or so the newspapers had said, but he still couldn't help but picture the man standing just outside his door with some sort of death trap that made such a sound.

John Watson was no coward however and so he swiftly grabbed the gun in his top drawer of the nightstand beside his bed and slowly made his way towards the door. His confusion and suspicion grew when the noise grew even louder and accompanying it was a blue light seeping in through the crack beneath his door.

Just as his hand found the door handle, the noise ceased yet he could still see the blue light. He squared his shoulders preparing himself for whatever was outside his door but as he pulled the door open nothing could prepare him for the sight before him.

Standing in the middle of the flat was a police public telephone box - one he'd only seen in history books from the 1960's. With his gun still secured in one hand he used his free hand to rub his eyes, wondering if he was perhaps having some strange dream. As he opened his eyes again however he was met with the same image of the police box sitting right in the center of 221B.

His brow furrowed as he cautiously took a step forward towards the mysterious phone box but instantly froze and raised his gun as the doors swung open and a bright light poured out into his dark flat.

His eyes squinted against the brightness but quickly readjusted and soon saw a shadowy figure appear in the doorframe of the police box.

"Dr. John Watson." A male's voice came from the direction of the figure.

"Yeah?" John shot back shortly. He'd seen all sorts of weird things in the last eighteen months but this time he didn't have Sherlock to tell him it was nothing to worry about. He didn't have Sherlock to deduce what it really was. Though he doubted even Sherlock could explain the sudden appearance of a police box in their flat.

The figure stepped out of the glaring light and into John's line of sight and he was a little taken a back to not find a man who looked like he could be working for Jim Moriarty but a young man, with floppy brown hair, dressed in tweed and a friendly smile. To be honest, John didn't know which one he'd actually find more horrifying.

His stern expression faltered with the shock of the situation but he quickly resumed military stance, his lips forming a hard line and focusing the gun directly at the stranger's head.

"Oh, all you humans with your guns." The stranger sighed, looking not at all phased by the said weapon being pointed at him. "Do put that away, I'm not here to hurt you John."

John stood unwavering for a long moment or two and then finally at the stranger's smirk, slowly lowered his hand to his side, his face softening but growing just a bit wary of the strange man.

"Who are you?" John demanded.

"I'm the Doctor." He answered simply with a self-satisfied grin.

John blinked. "Doctor who?"

"Exactly."

John stared, baffled at the strange man and his very cryptic responses. "Wha-? Look," he sighed heavily, "I'm not in the mood to play any sort of game. Are you going to tell me who you really are, or not?"

The Doctor seemed surprised by John's short tone as if he weren't expecting him to reply in such a way. He lost his smirk and adopted a more sympathetic look, approaching the former military man slowly.

"I really am the Doctor, thats what they call me."

John narrowed his eyes for a second. "Who calls you?"

He shrugged. "Everyone."

"Everyone." John repeated skeptically. "Everyone just calls you the 'Doctor'."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Right." John sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. "Right, okay then, just Doctor, next question, actually two..." He opened his eyes and pointed directly at the police box. "What the devil is that, and how did it get in here?"

The smile returned to the Doctor's face and he bounced towards the police box happily. "It's my TARDIS!"

"I'm sorry, your what?"

"My TARDIS. Stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space which in itself will answer your second question."

John stared at the Doctor with a frown. For a moment he felt as if he were talking to Sherlock. Here was a man standing before him spewing words at him that made absolutely no bloody sense and expecting him to know exactly what he was talking about.

However, unlike Sherlock, as well as the obvious differences from his former flat-mate, this 'Doctor' seemed to understand that his blank stare meant he didn't understand.

"It's a time machine." The Doctor elaborated.

John scoffed. "A time machine? You expect me to believe that someone in the 1960's built a time machine into a police box and then travelled through time to come here?"

"I'm not from the 1960's, I'm not even from Earth."

John blinked, remaining quiet for a moment or two, wondering if he had actually heard the man correctly. "...what?"

"I'm a Time Lord and I like to visit here occasionally, make friends, more often make enemies though not purposefully..."

John cocked his head, gaping at the blabbering man. "Are you telling me that you're an alien?"

The Doctor nodded, still with that frustrating little smirk on his face. "Yes."

"From another planet?"

"Well, couldn't be an alien from Earth. Although...saying that...there are the Silurian...and the Silence..."

John remained gaping at him for a few long moments as he seemed to get lost in his mind and then he slowly shook his head, slowly placed the gun on the nearest solid surface and began to turn around to head back to his room, muttering something to himself.

The Doctor's eyes widened at the retreating John and he leaped forward, bounding across the floor towards him and placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Where are you going?"

John half glanced over his shoulder at the man man from the box. "Back to bed, I don't know what I must have drank just before going to bed to make me dream something like this but I do prepare to sleep it off until morning."

A hearty chuckled rumbled from the Time Lord and he stepped in front of John to block his path. "You're not dreaming, John. I'm as real as you."

"I don't know how real I am anymore..." John muttered under his breath and his head shot up as he heard the Doctor chuckle again, wondering how he could have heard that.

"That's why I'm here, Johnny boy."

John's face darkened immensely and he tensed under the Doctor's touch, remembering the last time someone had called him that.

"You can talk now, Johnny boy, go ahead." Standing pool side with a bomb strapped to his chest, the psychopath's voice in his ear.

"Don't call me that." He hissed turning a stern glare on the man beside him, ripping away from his touch.

The smile once again fell from the Doctor's face as he seemed not hurt by John's attitude but curious. "Right...my apologies.."

John's eyes narrowed suspiciously and then cleared his throat. "It's fine." He said dismissively. "But I do think I really have to be heading off to bed..." He tried to move around the Doctor but the Doctor maneuvered himself to block him again and John let out a sigh.

"What is it you want with me? You want to harvest my brain or something? Because if so you might as well may get it over with."

John was almost expecting a quip from the Doctor but instead the Doctor only frowned more. "You are in a worse state than I imagined, Dr. Watson."

John furrowed his brow in surprise at the words. "Who are you? And please, don't tell me the Doctor. How do you know who I am? Why are you here?"

The Doctor sighed and moved to John's side, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "Let's just say a little birdie told me you were in need of a little adventure in your life, that you hadn't been yourself these last couple of months, that nothing ever happens to John Watson." The smirk returned at the shock in John's eyes. "I'm the one who's going to bring the fun back into your life."

John stared at him skeptically and then let out a half laugh, shaking his head. "No offense, mate. But I really don't think anyone can do that." No one who's alive...

"We shall see." The Doctor answered with a wink and then released John, spun on his heels and pranced back towards the police box. John followed him, slowly turning around to face him and the police box.

The Doctor grinned and held out his hand. "What do you say, John Watson, care for an adventure?"

"In there?" John motioned to the police box.

"That's just the transportation. The destination...is anywhere."

"Anywhere?"

The Doctor answered with a nod. "Any point in time, any where in the universe. All up to you."

John pursed his lips together, gazing in wonder at the strange Doctor and his strange police box and the strange promise of bringing adventure back into his life. He looked around the dark flat, full of nothing but old memories and loss. He was wasting away to nothing here and everyone always told him he should get out and do something...but could he really leave 221B?

"Could be dangerous."

With a short gasp, John whipped his head toward the Doctor and saw him now standing in the doorway, a smirk on his face and his arm extended outward, welcoming him forward.

John took one last look around...the violin, the skull, the cluedo board, the gunshots in the wallpaper...

...six months...

He let out a short sigh, gave a quick nod to himself and then glanced back at the Doctor. Then John Watson was marching towards the police box, saying goodbye to 221B and hello to adventure.


End file.
